Everybody Plays The Fool
by Rush Limborg
Summary: Set during "The Show Where Diane Comes Back". As Frasier finds himself spending more time with his former love, he finds that they both are struggling against conflicting desires...struggling to find where and with whom each of their hearts truly lie. 3 chapters in all. Please review, and let me know what you think. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**Note: This story is set during the ****_Frasier_**** episode "The Show Where Diane Comes Back"—shortly before the Café Nervosa sequence, where Niles watches silently while Frasier carries on a one-sided conversation about Diane. Frasier's inner conflict in that sequence, I felt, deserved some exploration—as did the implicit conflict within Diane in the episode, especially when you recall her implied "interaction" with the "Stan" actor….**

**It is the inner conflict of each of them that sticks in my mind, somehow, when listening to the song that shares a title with this tale, performed by The Main Ingredient.**

* * *

"Until then," the good doctor said, "This is Dr. Frasier Crane, wishing you good day…and good mental health."

And with that, he pressed the control, taking him off the air as the station ran its affairs, as it always did. And with that, the doors opened from Roz's cubicle, and Diane Chambers stepped into the broadcast studio, Roz Doyle in tow.

"Frasier, what a _wonderful_ broadcast!" Diane said, with such a beam that Frasier remembered all too well, from all those years ago.

Frasier smiled as he rose, purring his headphones to the side on the table. "Oh, it was nothing—simply…two, nearly three years of fine-_tuning_—with the assistance of perhaps the finest producer I could ask for."

"And he'd better not forget it," Roz muttered to Diane, with a smirk.

Diane smiled back, "_Oh_, I'm sure he never could. After all…as dear Frasier, of all people, knows full well, 'No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be _washed_ away by the sea…'"

Behind her, Frasier looked off with a tired smile.

Diane went on, "…Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were—'"

Roz glanced at Frasier, eyebrows raised. Frasier gave a silent sigh.

"…any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And _therefore_…" Diane paused for dramatic effect, "…_never_ send to know for whom the bell tolls…it tolls for thee."

She sighed in contentment, smiled at Roz, and said, "Donne."

"I hope so," Roz smirked.

Diane blinked—and laughed. "Oh, I did it again, didn't I? I'm sorry—forgive me, I know I can…go off on a proverbial tangent, on occasion. A bit of a nervous habit, I suppose."

Roz snorted. "Oh, _trust_ me, sister—you're nothing. You should see when _he_ gets going—"

"All right, Roz—" Frasier began—but before he could finish his remark, the door from the hall _slammed_ open, and, rolling in that infernal _gong_ and accessories—

"Hey, _Doc_—beat it, I'm claiming the doghouse—or you need a little brain-jog—?"

That _horn_—that _honk-honk_ spewing from it—

Frasier turned to the Napoleonic force of nature and began, "Yes, Bulldog, I'm—"

And Bulldog Briscoe froze in his tracks, straightening up at the sight of Diane Chambers. "Whoa," he said.

Diane stiffened. Frasier hung his head, rubbing his brow.

"Hey…Doc, who's the broad?" Briscoe said, eyes never leaving the poor woman. Diane was clearly struggling not to squirm.

"No one in _your_ league, buster," Roz shot back.

Frasier straightened up, "Yes, well—Diane Chambers this is…Bob 'Bulldog' Briscoe, our…sports commentator."

Diane nodded, eyes bulging wide as she took in Bulldog's equipment. "And I believe it!"

"Bulldog, this is Diane Chambers—formerly of Boston, an old friend of mine—"

"_Whoa_—back up here, Doc," Bulldog turned to Frasier, still tossing Diane a glance once every few seconds, "Are you—you saying _you_ and the bombshell, here—?"

"_That_…" Frasier narrowed his eyes at Bulldog, smiling, "—is a little too presumptuous, even for _you_."

_Bombshell?_ Diane mouthed to Roz, who just sighed.

Bulldog gave a theatric gasp, grabbed Frasier by both arms, staring into his eyes—and then threw his arms around him, moaning, "_Oh_, I'm so proud of you, man!"

Diane turned to Roz again, "What on—"

Roz rolled her eyes, "Excuse me—_down_, mutt! You're guy's in there, and I'm _pretty_ sure you're on in…one minute, forty-two seconds."

"Right on!" Bulldog shot to work, setting everything up…but not without adding, "Hey—D.C., right?"

Diane frowned, "Those…are my initials, yes—"

"Great—so, as long as you and the doc here aren't going for more fondue, what say you and me—?"

"_Bulldog_!" Frasier and Roz shot back in unison.

"Fine, hey, whatever's you're thing…but sure can't blame a guy for trying—HUHRF!—HUHRF!—HUHRF!" he barked at Diane…who just stared at him, frozen in place, her face positively ashen.

"_Yes_," Frasier muttered, "Well…we'd better be going along…."

"Yeah, sure," Bulldog sat down, as the three approached the door—but he whirled to face Diane once again, "Hey…Angel Face: change your mind, I'm not too hard to look up. Think about it."

Diane cleared her throat, and forced a smile, "Well, I'll certainly give it all _due_ consideration, at that."

"Yeah, you do that, babe," he said as he reached for the headphones—in the wrong direction. "Hey," he frowned, whirling to see, "Where's my—?"

Frasier and Roz braced themselves. _Here it comes_….

Bulldog _pounded_ the table—_bolting_ up: "THIS _STINKS_!—THIS IS _TOTAL B.S.!_—THIS IS—" as he turned and saw the headphones behind him, "—oh, here they are…."

Frasier, Diane and Roz rushed out into the hall, as Bulldog donned the phones, plopping back down in the seat as the light came on: "AND—you're in the Doghouse, with Bulldog Briscoe, KACL, 780—HUHRF!—HUHRF!—"

And thankfully, the rest was cut off by the closing of the door.

Diane stared at it, again frozen, "What…on Earth…was _that_?"

Roz shook her head, "Trust me, sister: You're better off not knowing."

"Yes," Frasier sighed, "The man is a tornado with a _Casanova_ complex."

"And clear and simple _testosterone_ poisoning!" Diane muttered.

"Tell me about it," Roz said.

Diane tilted her head—and added, "I wonder…"

Frasier turned to her, smiling, "Something on your mind?"

She shrugged. "Hmm—perhaps." She turned to Roz—and suddenly she cleared her throat, and looked as though she could barely contain herself, "You don't suppose, perhaps, he's _compensating for s—_"

And she burst out laughing before she could finish—Roz joining in almost immediately.

Frasier just shook his head, smiling. As always, Diane's laughter was something to behold: when she "got going", it was like a dam bursting with frivolity, nothing held back.

When the two women finally managed to get it under control, Roz shrugged, "Well, somehow, I actually doubt that. He's sure got enough _conquests_ to say otherwise."

"Con—" Diane blinked—and her mirth vanished, replaced by a dark bewilderment. "_Con_-quests?" she asked with a low voice and wide eyes.

Roz nodded, her eyes almost as wide. "Believe it or not, he's got quite a few."

"Indeed," Diane dryly muttered. "At any rate, I find it astonishing that any human male could be that shamelessly _primordial_, and expect a positive response from any woman higher than mindless bimbi."

Roz shrugged, "Trust me, I don't know how he does it, either—but he _does_." Turning to Frasier, she added, "Oh—Frasier, I gotta go. I'm…" she grinned, "Going out, tonight. _All_ out."

Frasier nods, chuckling. "Of course—well, good _luck_, anyhow."

Roz snorted. "As if I'll need it—see you around, Diane!"

"Rosalinda," Diane nodded, and the other woman headed down the call, confident and sure.

"I see the two of you are getting along quite nicely," Frasier smiled, as they walked side by side.

Diane returned the smile, "_Oh_, I shouldn't find it surprising—she's a competent, intelligent woman with a very _pioneer_ sort of spirit…"

"And a gender-reversed _lothario_ passion," Frasier found he couldn't resist adding, with a smirk. "I'm surprised you didn't find _that_ a little off-putting, at least."

Diane blinked, and shrugged, "Yes, well…no one's _perfect_, I suppose."

They shared a chuckle, and Diane sighed, "Still, in her defense…I suppose one can easily argue that—well, she's looking for that _one_ man…that—lifetime partner, with whom to share one's hopes, and dreams…"

"Yes…" Frasier nodded, looking off, "And achieve them together, no matter the obstacles of life."

Diane smiled at him for a moment, but looked off, pondering something. Finally, she said, "Frasier…might I ask—well, I hardly want to _impose_, least of all on _you_ of all people, but…"

"Oh, it's all right," Frasier smiled, "I'm listening."

Diane chuckled at this, and added, "Well, I was wondering—again, this is only if it wouldn't impose too much on your route, but…you see, today, rehearsals begin for my play, and, well, I was wondering if you could _drive_ me there—again, if it's not too much trouble."

Frasier's smile grew. "Of course. You know I'd love to."

She returned the smile. "Thank you, Frasier."

"Think nothing of it. It's all my pleasure, Diane."

And as they walked together, Frasier suddenly found himself wondering what on Earth he thought was going to happen between the two of them.

_Oh, I know exactly what Niles would say: "Funny…a week ago, you were so dead-_set_ on achieving emotional retribution against Diane for leaving you at the altar and thereby 'mistreating' you, as you so eloquently put it. I wonder what's changed, Frasier: I don't suppose you are _falling_ for her, again—?"_

_Oh, _really_, Niles! I thought you'd _wanted_ me to achieve closure with her—repair the proverbial gulf, that sort of thing. Well—what do you call _this_?_

_"Yes, indeed—what _do_ you call this?"_

As he found himself looking at her again…waiting eagerly for her next smile and sideways glance in his direction…he suddenly realized that even he did not have much of an answer to that question.


	2. Chapter 2

As Frasier's started the car, from the radio came Bulldog's voice, again—as he was ranting and raving about the latest scores of the Seahawks versus the something-or-other….

Diane shook her head. "He's an aggressive sort of person, isn't he?"

Frasier shrugged, as he pulled out of the space, "Well, he's certainly passionate. I can't really fault him for that."

"There's passionate, and there's unstable! Frasier, I somehow wouldn't be surprised if he were to suddenly throw that _gong_ of his out the studio window."

Frasier chuckled. "Well, for what it's worth, my father is something of a fan of his."

Diane shrugged. "Well, I don't suppose, in _this_ case, there's much accounting for taste."

Frasier smiled.

To be honest, Bulldog's antics _were_ becoming tiresome…and neither Frasier nor Diane really cared too much for the subject matter. And so, Frasier changed the station. The first he found was a "classics" station—classics, in the sense of "the oldies". Again, not particularly Frasier's taste—he preferred orchestras, himself—but it was better than Bulldog.

"Frasier…"

"Hmm?"

Diane tensed a bit, and tried, "I was wondering—I hope Martin doesn't…well, I couldn't help but wonder if…" she swallowed, and blurted out, "Frasier, how does your father feel about me? I—I've never been quite able to figure him out…."

Frasier chuckled. "You know…until recently, neither have I."

Diane smiled. "Recently?"

Frasier shrugged. "Well…he moved in, a few months after he was shot—and even then, it took…some time before we were able to—really _connect_."

Diane nodded, her gaze lowered.

"Why do you ask?"

"I…I don't know. I only felt—well, there seems to be a sort of _tension_, if you will…."

Frasier turned to her. "Diane—Dad's always liked you as a _person_, believe me. He only…"

He stopped himself. He couldn't bring himself to finish: _He only thinks…that you're a terrible match for _me_._

Diane frowned at him. "He only…?"

Frasier shrugged. "Well, he's always been rather—closed, to certain things…certain feelings."

"I—see…"

It was best to change the subject—lest she press further, as Diane so often did. "In fact, there are _times_," Frasier smirked, "When I feel as though the only ones with whom he can truly 'open up' are his friend Duke and…" he stiffened, "…_Eddie_."

Diane smiled. "That adorable little terrier?"

Frasier's voice lowered, his jaw set. "_That_…Eddie."

"Oh, _Frasier_, I thought you _loved_ dogs! Your puppy—"

"Was _not_…Eddie."

Diane chuckled. "And just _what_ is so wrong with…" she leaned to him, playfully lowering her own voice, "…_Eddie_?"

Frasier looked pointedly at her. "Diane…I sincerely hope you will never have to suffer the spectacle of a four-legged creature who insists on…sitting at a short distance, and _staring_ at you…keeping his gaze _fixed_ on you, without moving, seemingly for all _eternity_."

Diane laughed. "Why, Frasier, you should consider that sort of thing a _compliment_! He finds you fascinating—he's…" she shrugged, "transfixed by your considerable charisma!"

"Diane," Frasier muttered, staring ahead, down the street, "That dog is a _stalker_ of the eyes. There are times when…I feel as though he believes his pupils are Kryptonian—that if he focuses long and hard enough…" he shuddered. "I swear, Diane, there are times when I wish I could just…" his grip on the wheel tightened, "…let that mangy little _dog_ know just how much I despise it…how often I've come _this close_ to empathizing with the narrator of Poe's _Tell-Tale Heart_—that _eye_, watching him from the old man…" his fists began to twist and wring and curdle the handles of the wheel, "Encouraging him to—put his hands around that _neck_, and just…make it _stop_…those _eyes_…that _stare_…"

"Frasier?"

"Curse that _dog_ anyway…"

"_Frasier_!"

Frasier snapped out of it with a blink, and sighed, leaning back in his seat. "Well—now you know," he muttered.

Diane sighed, and reached over to the dial, turning it up a bit.

Frasier smiled. "Trying to distract me, are you?"

"Oh, I've found that certain genres of music can have a natural…therapeutic effect. But I'm sure you'd know more about that than _I_, Frasier."

"Oh, no—I'd say you're right, on that."

"Besides," Diane said, leaning back, "I've _also_ found that many of these—songs of a bygone era have a certain…poetic quality to them. Albeit, the subject matter is typically a simplistic one—nonetheless, I've found the work of Bob Dylan in particular to be…actually quite stimulating at times!"

_Indeed_, Frasier mused._ I wonder if you've ever truly listened to the lyrics of "Like A Rolling Stone", Diane…and then dared to apply them to _yourself_?_

He thought it, but didn't say it. He could never be that cruel.

A song ended on the radio…and another began. And with the opening notes, Diane straightened up, and asked, "May I?"

Frasier smiled. "By all means."

Diane turned the volume up, so that the music filled the interior of the car.

The main singer began by speaking an introduction—an introduction that sounded to Frasier rather like a "casual" vernacular channeled by a confidant—perhaps a therapist, in his own rite? His audience was apparently depressed—heartbroken, presumably to the point of suicide. The singer consoled them to not to do anything rash, and instead to listen…as the song itself began—the chorus, which was of course all too familiar, as Frasier had heard it many times, in his youth:

_Everybody plays the fool—sometimes_….

_There's no exception to the rule._

_Listen, baby—_

_It may be factual, maybe cruel…_

_I ain't lying—_

_Everybody plays the fool_….

It was a song that spoke of the idealism of falling in love…and of the tragedy of the romance being hopeless, especially if the love was not fully mutual. It spoke of how love was an all-controlling emotion, which could, and often did, cloud the mind to such obvious facts and faults—sweep away the ability to reason…and in the end, could well turn both the giver and the taker into "fools", of a kind—albeit in different ways…so that they would both be reduced to tears, both alone with their broken hearts.

How cruelly appropriate. How appropriately cruel. And as Frasier turned to Diane, he noticed the tension in her body—the angst filling her features, as she swallowed, and began to blink furiously for a moment, before closing her eyes completely. It was painfully clear that she was thinking along the same lines, as she listened.

The song faded out at last, and the station identification sounded out. Diane's hand shot forward to turn the radio off, and she let out a sigh…one that sounded drained, tired.

"Diane?" Though Frasier _strongly_ suspected he knew all too well what she was currently going through—he empathized, to put it mildly—he knew full well he had to ask, regardless. Such was his duty to the profession, after all.

Diane blinked again, and shook her head. "I—I'm sorry, Frasier…I'm—I should have anticipated…"

"The song? Diane, I'd say you had a point, at least—I suppose you could say it's been…well, cathartic, actually."

Diane nodded, looking off. "Yes, well…cathartic or not, it was still…not the most pleasant choice, was it?"

"Well, you let it run until the end…you didn't cut it off."

"I—couldn't. I-I don't know why—"

"Diane…I think we both know the answer to that."

She turned to him…and Frasier could see the tears in her eyes. Tears he'd so often seen from her…that could soften, if not break, even the hardest of male hearts.

And just like that, she turned away again. "Frasier," she managed to say, "Why are some of us…so alone? Why does it, so often, have to be a choice between two halves of a truly happy life—when you somehow _know_ that one can't fulfill you without the other? Why can't…?"

She shook her head, and whispered something under her breath. It sounded blurted out—Frasier doubted she was even aware she'd just said it. But _he'd_ heard it, nonetheless: _"Oh, Sam…"_

_No…don't anguish over that. She's merely referring to a love she'd lost, leaving for success in her life. Of course it's been traumatic for her…but she's recovering from it—isn't she?_

But with the name—not for the first time, Frasier also felt a twinge of guilt in his heart. Guilt…over the things he'd said, when she'd returned to Boston—when she and Sam proclaimed to the rest of the gang how ready and eager they were to rekindle the romance they'd shared—to _marry_, without further interruption at last. Frasier had, in a fit of _something_—whether contempt, jealousy, or genuine concern, he suspected he'd never know—soundly condemned their decision, choosing to describe what the two had shared as little more than vitriolic masochism.

It was the same guilt he'd felt, a year ago…when Sam had arrived in Boston, having fled a marriage to a woman who was such a clear and obvious substitution— a marriage that was so clearly a desperate attempt on Sam's part to fill a deep, painful void in his heart. After a brief reconciliation of the couple—reversed amid a series of frankly unfortunate discoveries…Frasier had told his old friend, point-blank, that there were clearly "more compelling reasons" for his ultimate cancelling of the marriage. But Frasier's guilt—his _fear _to face that guilt—dared not allow him to elaborate. Besides—as far as he could have known at the time, Diane was off settled and prosperous and, for all he knew, happily married—or at least in a good, healthy, meaningful relationship.

Apparently, all of _that_ was far from reality. Diane had noted to him, that first dinner after she'd showed up at the KACL studio, almost a week ago—that she _had_ tried to move on…for two years, with a certain man. She'd made it a point not to give a name, or any details…only that it had "ended", presumably due to the fallout of the debacle on the set of _Dr. Quinn_. From what Frasier could deduce, the man had simply abandoned her, like her "friends" in Hollywood had. He'd tried to research the debacle afterwards without anyone's knowledge, despite himself—but all he could find was that, apparently, it had all been kept "behind-the-scenes". And so Frasier could find precious little, if anything—only that the series had fired her quietly. All he knew was that…when her career had taken the fall, those she'd thought she could rely on had abandoned her, without much of a second thought.

Despite himself, he found himself suddenly thinking, _How much of all of this—this despair, this…loneliness she's had to endure, these three years, with or without that "other man"—how much of it was my fault? How much of it could've been avoided, had I simply "shut my yap," as Dad would say…and let Sam and Diane fly off into the sunset, _together_?_

The voice of Niles again: _"I wonder, Frasier—was your initial obsession with revenge in lieu of closure simply due to your refusal to accept what you _feel_ to be responsibility for her inability to find reconciliation with Sam Malone? And perhaps her tear-filled breakdown over dinner forced you into a period of over-compensation, _now_—your desire to help her, no matter the cost, while behaving as though you harbor no ill will… Frankly, Frasier, it could well be stemming from an immense desire for redemption on your part, however irrational—"_

_I don't want to hear it, Niles! She's a dear friend—regardless of how she'd hurt me, before. And she's apologized to me—over and over, _years_ ago, and I've never really accepted it. _This_ is my way of making amends for that—is it really so hard to understand?_

_"Frasier…you do realize that is essentially what I just said—"_

_SPARE ME, Niles! Diane needs me, here and now…I can't let her down, again._

"I'm sorry, Diane," he said to her, driving his thoughts away.

She dabbed her tears away with a tissue from her purse, and turned to him. "W-what?"

Frasier sighed, and shrugged. "Well, for what it's worth, I haven't exactly been one for…being able to reconcile my career with a—well, with a long-term relationship. After Lilith, I suppose…"

Diane nodded. And the she looked out the window, and said, "Oh—Frasier, we're here. The Roundabout…"

Frasier nodded. "Right."

He pulled into a space, and parked. But as they unbuckled, Frasier held up his forefinger at Diane with a smile. She returned it, but looked a little confused as she remained seated.

Frasier beamed, as he stepped out onto the street, closed his door…and walked over to Diane's side. She waited in the car patiently, her smile growing—she clearly understood, the moment he stepped out.

Frasier opened her door, and Diane stepped out, chuckling in delight as she took his hand. "Why, Frasier!"

"Well, call me old-fashioned, in this case—but I suppose a lady like yourself should deserve it."

Diane laughed again, as Frasier closed the door. "Well, _this_ lady is certainly grateful, and touched. Frasier Crane, you're a true gentleman."

"Thank you, Diane—I certainly try."

"Oh, no—you were _wonderful_, just now!" Diane said as they began to walk. "In fact, for what it's worth, I'm certainly glad to see such things are still done _somewhere_. I've found 'chivalry', if one may call it that, is all but a lost art, now—it's saddening how it's so often considered outdated, or archaic—or, heaven forbid, as _misogynist_!"

Frasier chuckled. "Your experience in Los Angeles, I take it?"

"Essentially. My word, Frasier—I've long thought of myself as a faithful feminist by _all_ accounts, but…when I hear a 'sister', as it were, respond to such nostalgia with something akin to 'Oh, so how far back do you want to _go_, Diane—do you still want to _vote_?'…well, it's frankly unnerving, at best."

Frasier shrugged. "Well…fortunately, I've yet to encounter _that_ sort of mindset en masse."

Diane nodded, looking off. "Well, perhaps were you to visit Los Angeles, sometime…"

Frasier smiled. "The 'City of the Angels'? Oh, I've visited a few times before, mostly for a conference or other…but as far as taking in the sights and the spectacle…no, I'm afraid it probably _would_ be my first time."

Diane smiled at him.

Frasier went on, "So, is it as beautiful as its moniker suggests?"

"Well, Hollywood is certainly very lovely—and Beverly Hills…and the beaches…"

Frasier's smile grew, as he stared pointedly at her, "…and the angels it so readily claims to house—and in some cases, I can honestly say…it truly does."

Diane blushed a little, smiling timidly as her gaze fell.

"Diane…" Frasier stopped as they were passing by a fountain, taking Diane gently by the arms, "All of that being said, now…have you ever considered leaving Los Angeles—leaving that path behind?"

Diane stiffened. "Frasier…that's my _life_."

"Is it? Diane, you've told me yourself, your career's in shambles. There's _nothing_ for you, there—not after all that. You can be a playwright anywhere, can't you?—here, Chicago, Boston, Broadway—"

Diane blinked. "Boston?"

Frasier kept his swallow internal, as he steadied himself and resumed, "I only mean…why even _consider_ returning to…that kind of life, when it's brought you little more than…"

_No—no, that's not fair. Remember, Frasier, when you saw her face again for the first time in six years…? She was on television, receiving an award! She _has_ enjoyed success…for all either of you know, this is simply a sad "dry spell"._

Diane peered at him questioningly. "Little more than…?"

Frasier shrugged, releasing her. "Diane," he said softly, "What's left for you, there? Lost dreams, as you struggle to find them? You don't need to put yourself through that—you can write, you can direct your plays and publish your poems…. And hang Hollywood, anyway!—you don't need it, do you? Did you even really _want_ it, in the first place?"

Diane stiffened again, as she broke her gaze. "I…" she began—but cut herself off, so obviously unsure of how to answer.

Frasier took her arms again, gently. She seemed so fragile and delicate, standing there before him…so vulnerable. And so close…so warm and warm-hearted.

_And, dare I say it in my heart again—so very beautiful…_

He felt such a burning desire, in that moment, to help her—to _protect_ her, from the cruelties of the world…as he once had, all those years ago at Goldenbrook. And all she'd done, since then—allowing her heart to be torn in two…with himself as an unwitting accomplice, and then a victim of what he'd helped to encourage without knowing it—

_"Ah! And now we have you, blaming _yourself_ for what you've so long persisted in blaming _her_ for. Frankly, Frasier, this doesn't quite strike me as particularly stable—"_

_Well, it's TRUE, Niles! I _knew_, didn't I—almost from the very beginning…the moment I first heard her say the name "Sam", that night that was supposed to be _ours_, and ours alone…but I eventually allowed her to talk me—and herself—out of any deep consideration of that. _I_, a trained psychologist and psychiatrist—I, who know the clear signs of "denial" like the back of my own hand…I should have persisted, insisted that _that_ was what Diane was going through, as she struggled so hard to reassure me that she was "over" him. And that inner struggle remained in her, and simmered, and became too hard for her to handle—of _course_ she would panic!_

_"Well…seeing as we're thankfully on the subject of _denial_…"_

_SHUT UP, Niles! I don't need to hear it!_

_"You're _not_ hearing it, Frasier. This is in your head, which means Diane clearly isn't the _only_ one suffering from an 'inner struggle'—"_

"Frasier…?"

Thank heaven for Diane Chambers, as the voice in his head was swept away by her own. Frasier smiled a little, "Yes?"

"You—you're holding me a little tight."

"Oh—" Frasier let go of her arms, and sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm…a little tense, understand."

Diane nodded. "I was…I was going to say, 'Thank you.' And—believe me…I've so often thought of that, myself."

"Of…what?"

"Leaving Los Angeles…starting over, as it were."

Frasier nodded, quietly adding, "But…?"

Diane looked off, and sighed. "Frasier, I don't suppose I have to tell you how deeply I…well, you moved here because of your father, I recall."

Frasier nodded again. "That's right."

"You have a _family_ to go to. My father's long since passed away, and Mummy—" she stiffened, her lip tightening, "Well…the less said about _her_, the better, I suppose."

Frasier smiled.

"But—the point is, I don't know if I have anyone, anymore. I can't in good conscience just go back to—" she blinked a bit, "—well, to Boston…after everything. I can't expect to just impose myself upon the others, like that. And…"

"Diane," Frasier said…his smile growing, "You could move here. To Seattle."

Diane looked at him, and froze, her eyes wide. When could finally muster words, she said, "F-Frasier…"

"I mean it, Diane. You're certainly welcome, here…if I have anything to say about it."

"But—Frasier, _no_. I can't. Not after all that's happened—I could never do that to you!"

"_Diane_…" Frasier took her arms once more, "Don't keep hurting yourself—and I mean that. A…a loving spirit like yours can't be bridled. Don't try to—you'd only hurt those you're trying to protect."

Diane stared at him in silence…and her eyes started to well up once again. "Frasier…" she finally managed to whisper.

Frasier could no longer help himself…and he brought her to him, and his lips met hers. He felt her stiffen…and the tension never left her, even as she relaxed into his hold as his arms encircled her. He heard the fountain burst upward—and that was his only awareness of the world around them.

There was an awareness, however, that he didn't feel the touch of Diane's hands, in response. He somehow knew, through her movements or however—that she was struggling with whether to return his passion or not.

_Diane, don't torture yourself—you won't be hurting me again, with this. It's _my_ choice—you don't need to fear it._

But as he broke the kiss…and stared at her…he saw her lip quivering, tears now on her cheeks. And in her eyes was a flicker of—was that _guilt_ he saw, there?

Diane wiped the tears away. "Frasier…" she whispered, "What was that?"

Frasier smiled, "I'm not sure. Would you care to help me find out?"

He saw her tremble a bit, and she swallowed. Finally she sighed in what sounded like resignation—and she let him embrace her once again, their lips meeting once again. And this time she did respond, without fear. There was a hesitation—a caution, so indicative of the Diane Chambers he remembered, whenever she felt a need to examine the situation in which she found herself. But she wasn't afraid…just cautious, treading into what she probably felt was shaky ground.

To be honest…Frasier didn't feel too different, on that account. But in this moment, he was leading with his heart…not necessarily his head.

It was a kiss that fit either as a rekindling of a lost love, or as a final note, a crescendo, a seal of acknowledgment, a monument to the feelings they'd had for one another—whether they still held them or not. And when they broke once again…Diane stared at him, and she smiled.

_My word…_ Frasier had forgotten how radiant Diane looked, whenever she smiled like this—so joyful, so innocent and childlike in how she'd give herself over to that simple emotion…how that glow would fill her features, and make everything else in either of their lives seem so meaningless.

Diane sighed, and shook her head. "Oh, what have I ever done to deserve a friend like you?"

There was a brief twinge of disappointment in his hear upon hearing the word "friend"…but it passed, and Frasier felt he understood why she'd said it. That kiss, more than anything else, was the greatest possible gesture of support he could have possibly given her. And regardless of what would happen between the two of them in the future—_this_ was a milestone, a moment neither of them would ever forget.

Frasier shrugged. "Well—I don't suppose you'd care to join me for dinner, then? Once the day's rehearsals complete…?"

There was that flicker of guilt, again—the confusion with a realization of something…something neither of them would dare invoke. Was it that dark moment in their past, in Italy…? Or was it a deeper conflict in her own heart—a conflict of…of where Diane's heart truly lay?

Frasier couldn't tell. He was no psychic…and he wasn't about to ask _Daphne_ for advice on that, when he'd return home. All he knew was…Diane was troubled, again—and Frasier somehow knew that, for all his efforts…it was something she would have to overcome on her own.

She swallowed, and shook her head, "I—I'm sorry, Frasier, but the…it's going to run late, from what I've been told."

Frasier nodded. "Of course. But…when you're available…"

Diane nodded, and forced a smile. "Well—until then, Frasier…"

Frasier smiled. "Until then."

And Diane turned, and headed to the theater. Frasier stood there, watching her. And when she was gone, he turned and went back to his car.

* * *

**Note: Diane's mention of Bob Dylan is, of course, a reference to her mumbling the words to "Just Like A Woman" in the ****_Cheers_**** episode "How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Call You Back."**


	3. Epilogue

He drove back to his space in the parking garage of the building that housed his hope. And when he stepped out of the car, closing the door behind him, Frasier leaned back against it and thought…mulled over all that had occurred today, between the two of them.

_"I have it, Frasier! Your animosity towards Diane was overcome when you discovered the depths of her current vulnerability. You'll recall that you'd first discovered you'd fallen for her when her time at Goldenbrook had ended—and she was free to re-enter the world. Perhaps her…immense gratitude then bordered on hero-worship—you effectively rescued her from peril, and she saw you as a proverbial 'knight in shining armor'. Naturally, you found yourself deeply drawn to such an heroic image of yourself—and so in accepting it, you—"_

_Oh, really! Where do these thoughts come from, anyway?_

_"I'm simply suggesting…you're seeing her as in deep peril and distress once again, Frasier—and once again, you're the brave knight coming to her rescue. Perhaps that's something you can't resist…a sort of 'Nightingale Effect', hmm? And while we're on the subject—perhaps _that _is why she reacted as tensely as she did?"_

Frasier shook his head. That wasn't Niles anyway—just his projection of what he _might_ say.

_Speaking of Niles…_ He checked his watch. Niles wouldn't be at Café Nervosa for an hour or so.

Well…thirty-two blocks away—time enough to walk there. Time enough, Frasier supposed, to clear his head.

And to get that now-infernal song about everybody playing the _fool_ out of his mind.

He straightened up, let out a sigh of resignation—and walked, bracing himself for a confrontation—with Niles or with himself, he didn't know. But he braced himself against the uncertainty of the future, nonetheless…only barely aware that he was humming the song to himself, all the way there.

* * *

_The end...but their journeys are only beginning._


End file.
